


Million Dollar Houses

by sarcasmlock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Pierce The Veil - Freeform, Songfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasmlock/pseuds/sarcasmlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is a middle-class painter living in an apartment above an art museum. Castiel Novak is a poor ex-substitute teacher trying to live on next to nothing. Inspired by the song “Million Dollar Houses (The Painter)” by Pierce the Veil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Million Dollar Houses

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Quick thank you to my awesome betas, a loser named Jamie and my literal brother, Nick. Enjoy the story and don’t kill me with negative feedback! Also, there will be sensitive topics later on in the story, but I don’t wanna spoil anything, so just use caution getting invested to this story. When I post those sensitive chapters, then I will use the tags. But chapter one is safe. Sad-free. So far. Yayyyy. More to come. Soon, I promise!

 

  
_So what if I was just a painter_   
_painting houses on the rich blue coast?_   
_Would you ever try to leave me_   
_for somebody who deserves you most?_

 

Dean Winchester let out a long, exhausted sigh and sat down his paintbrush.

The painting before him was stunning, depicting a busy view by the riverside. But as it stood now on the easel, Dean felt that it was lacking something. His eyes scanned the canvas. The water sparkled with hues of blue, the sky melting into the river with faint yellow strokes. The figures remained faceless, however, blurred between the buildings and the boats. Faces had never been Dean's strong point. And painting on-site like this means all the people won't sit still for him use them as models. He grumbled softly, wiping off brushes with an air of frustration. He lifted up the canvas gingerly and folded up the easel. Stuffing the easel, paints, and brushes into a coarse black duffel bag with the rest of his supplies, he slung the bag over his shoulder and walked through the crowd of people towards a tall, ancient building.

The building had a distinct, crisp white sign above the door proclaiming it as "Lawrence Art Museum and Antiquities". Dean opened the door, the warm air cascading him instantly, drawing him out of the frosty air. The bell attached to the door rang. A young redheaded woman popped up from behind the front counter, pausing only to brush her hair out of her face. "Hello, Dean!" she said excitedly, "How did it go today?"

"The riverside is hard to paint and I need a drink. Charlie, are you okay holding up the fort down here a bit longer while I put this painting up to dry?"

Charlie raised her hand to her forehead solemnly, a sloppy salute. "Of course. We're practically empty anyways," she added, gesturing around her to the empty room, save for a few art students, an elderly couple, and, of course, the paintings hanging on the wall, gold plates nailed under the wooden frames encompassing them.

"Keep it that way. We're going on lunch break in ten minutes, okay?"

"Alright, Captain." Dean sighed.

"Another thing. Don't call me Captain. This isn't Star Trek."

Charlie rolled her eyes. "Whatever."

Dean walked past the handful of visitors to a doorway with a faded sign warning "EMPLOYEES ONLY". Through the door, he made his way up a shambling stairway— two flights. Finally, he came to another door. He pulled his keys out of his pocket and shoved them in the lock. Turning the door knob, he was already taking off his jacket.

Dean's apartment wasn't much— one bedroom, one bathroom, a small, tightly-packed kitchen. But it was closest to work, and in the heart of the city. Plus, John, the museum's owner, rented it to him for a very low price. John wasn't around that much, an old man weak in health, but when he did come by he insisted on drinking Dean's beer and insulting his paintings. But what could Dean do about it? John was his boss, and Dean liked his steady pay and top-floor apartment.

Dean walked onto the balcony and sat down his new painting next to plethora of others. Small and large canvases, showing countless scenes of open fields and busy cities. He sold some of them in the adjoined antiquity shop, but others he kept around his apartment in random places: hanging in the bathroom, above the can opener, sitting around the couch, laying in the closet. People told him his work was amazing, and it was, but somehow Dean felt unsatisfied with everything he painted.

He wanted to paint people. Portraits, full-body pictures, hands and feet; it was all the same to him. But every time he tried, they were just blobs of paint on the canvas. No defining features, just the same mess. He tried to paint them ever since he was young. Going through high school, his younger brother Sam constantly teased him for his failed attempts. "Maybe you should stick to landscapes. This looks nothing like me!" he would say. Now, Sam's voice rings in Dean's ears every time he tried to paint people. So Dean doesn't. He avoids it when he can. Buyers assume it's just an artistic choice when all the people in his paintings are undefined silhouettes, but it isn't. Dean remembers Sam's laughter and paints over their faces. That's how it's always been.

Dean went over to his refrigerator and pulled out a beer. He took a long, slow sip. Suddenly, the sound of knocking broke the silence and he winced, spilling his drink all over his shirt. "Son of a bitch!"

"Dean!" Charlie called through the door, "We have a customer who needs your help!"

Dean checked his watch. It was 1:00. "Right now? We are on break!"

"He says it's urgent."

Dean changed his shirt quickly, opening his door to Charlie standing, smug, in the hallway. "He better be the damn president, if it's that important," he complained as they walked down the stairs together. When they reached the door to the museum, Dean's breath caught in his throat and he froze. Charlie walked through the door easily, turning back to him.

"C'mon! Don't be stubborn!" But Dean wasn't paying any attention.

He could have sworn that there was an angel standing before him. He was paralyzed with awe. A man, dressed casually in a gray polo shirt and black pants, was waiting before the door expectantly. His hair was disheveled and his jaw was perfectly curved, stubble lining his chin. But most strikingly, the stranger had piercing eyes, lit up like blue fire in the dim museum. Dean instinctively straightened the hem of his shirt. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Hello. C-Charlie said you needed me, for something?"

The man smiled, and, oh _God_ , his eyes seemed to grow brighter, flames growing in brilliance with every millisecond. Dean felt a heart attack coming on as he opened his fragile, slightly chapped mouth to talk.

"I heard you— the museum, I mean—bought antiques, so I...I have a few things I would like to sell." The man pulled from under his arm a small cardboard box, the edges worn and repaired with duct tape.

Dean nodded, his breath returning to normal. This was his job, he could do this. Why was he so shaky? That man was a stranger, nothing more. A beautiful, beautiful stranger.

“Alright. Well. Charlie and I were about to go on lunch break, and inspecting, er, items for their worth takes a while. Can you wait until about an hour?”

The man shuffled his feet slightly, nodding. “Yeah, of course. Sure. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s,” Dean paused, and he was not staring at his celestial blue eyes again, “It’s fine. Uhm. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

The man tilted his head slightly, like a book on an empty shelf or a tree root in the mud. “I’m Castiel.” Dean smiled.

“I’m Dean. Dean Winchester. Nice to meet you.” Dean extended his hand towards Castiel, who shook it evenly and measured.

“Nice to meet you as well, Dean Winchester.” Something about the way Castiel said his name made Dean feel weak in the knees, like he could just fall over. His simple roll-of-the-tongue over Dean’s name fit so comfortably. Dean felt like he knew Castiel forever in that one moment.

Lunch couldn’t pass by fast enough. Between spoonfuls of soup, Dean kept checking his watch, visibly fidgeting. “So, that guy, Castiel, he was kinda attractive, yeah?” Charlie mentioned nonchalantly.

Dean paused with another spoonful halfway to his mouth. “Uh, I guess? Since when do you notice, though?”

Charlie shrugged. “I don’t. But I saw that you two couldn’t stop staring at each other.” She leaned forward. “You nervous?”

“About what?”

“You _like_ him,” she said accusingly, her tongue flicking out of her mouth in glee.

“Cut the preschool crap. Besides, I barely even know the guy. I just met him!”

Charlie leaned forward and patted his arm, which was still gripping tightly to a silver spoon. “Don’t you believe in love at first sight?”

Two women sitting at a table near theirs started giggling, looking clear at Charlie and Dean. Charlie turned to face them. “Hey— it’s not funny. We aren’t a couple; we’re both gay.” The women’s laughter faded, and they sat red-faced blinking in awe at Charlie. Charlie smiled triumphantly at their shocked faces. “You paying, or shall I?”

Dean glanced at his soup bowl, still half-full. He wasn’t hungry at all, he was just anxious. He pushed it away.

After Charlie paid (Dean paid the last time), they walked back to the museum in silence, with the occasional squeal from Charlie about Castiel. Dean started tuning her out. When they reached the museum, Dean was surprised to see Castiel standing there silently, as if he’d been waiting there.

“Dude. Have you been standing there since we left?” Dean asked, his mouth agape.

“Yes.” Castiel answered simply, his tone leaving no room for further inquiry. Dean shrugged.

“Okay. Whatever.” He unlocked the museum’s doors and opened them wide. “Follow me, Castiel.”

Castiel followed Dean down a hallway, past the paintings, until they reached a room clearly labelled “ANTIQUES STORE”. At the back of this room was a simple desk, cash register laying neatly among stacks of paper.

“So, what is it you’d like to sell?” Dean asked. Castiel, in response, pulled out his box, sitting it on the desk.

“Everything in there.”

“Alright,” Dean said, opening the box. Inside, he was shocked to see what looked like the inside of a jewelry box— golden and silver chains, several lockets, and perched like a crown jewel at the top, a sparkling diamond ring. Dean carefully lifted the ring out of the box. It appeared to be a woman’s engagement ring. In the center was a breathtaking blue sapphire, with tiny white diamond embellishments surrounding it. The band looked slightly rusted— nothing a little polish wouldn’t fix. The diamonds, upon closer inspection, proved to be genuine. “This is quite a lovely ring you have here. Where did you get it?”

“It was my mom’s. She left it to me in her will.” Castiel waved towards the box. “Same with those.”

“These look quite valuable. Are you sure you want to sell these?”

He nodded. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Dean thought for a second, then spoke. “I’ll give you $1,000 for it.”

Castiel’s eyes lit in amazement. “$1,000? Th-that’s so much!”

Dean shook his head. “Well, it’s worth it. These stones seem genuine, it’s in near-perfect condition. It’s probably worth more, but I’ll start at $1,000. What did _you_ want for it?”

Castiel’s blue fire eyes were wet with a whisper of tears. “I was hoping to get $100 for it.” Dean was shocked.

“Oh.” He pressed a button on the register, drawer springing out. He counted out several one-hundred dollar bills and held them out to Castiel. “Tell you what. I’ll give you $3,000 for this entire box.”

“3,000?” he asked in disbelief.

“Yes. Is that okay? I can offer more if you—”

“No!” Castiel interrupted. “T-that is great. $3,000 it is.”

Dean forked over the money to Castiel. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s making you sell this jewelry? Why not hang on to it any longer?” Castiel sighed.

“I needed to pay rent. I needed to buy food. I _can’t_ hold on to them. I can’t afford to.”

Dean nodded. “Oh. Do you have a job?”

“Full-time substitute teacher.” Castiel sighed. “As you can imagine, it’s not very high-paying.”

Dean paused, his eyes flitting down to the box again. “You know what,” he started, reaching into it, “How about you keep this?” He pressed the ring into Castiel’s palm. Castiel stared up at him in wonder.

“B-but, the other jewelry— it’s not nearly worth $3,000, even together!” Dean shook his head.

“Just take the damn money,” he paused. “Oh, and— here!” Dean handed Castiel a business card from a stack sitting lazily on the desk. “Call me if you need anything. At all, okay? Don’t hesitate. And don’t sell that ring. It’s too ethereal for retail.” He smiled at Castiel. “Have a good day, Cas!”

Dean felt a chill run down his back as he watched the handsome stranger take his exit. His walk was slightly tilted to the right, his head bobbling with each step. Dean noticed a stain of mud on the back of his left leg, and dirt lining the bottom of his shoes. He closed his eyes as Castiel took his leave, face fixed towards the ceiling. “I’m an idiot. Cas. Like we’ve known each other since we were kids.” He looked down, shaking his head. “I’m a freakin’ moron! Man up, Winchester!”

 

~

 

 _Cas_.

Castiel smiled to himself as he walked out of the warm yellow air of the museum, satisfying jingle of the door’s bell ringing out into the silence.

$3,000. The money weighed down in the corner of his pocket. That was a lot for the junk Castiel handed him, and the man was totally aware of that. What was his name again?

“ _Dean_.” The name sounded familiar on his dry throat. He shook his head and paused to pull out Dean’s business card.

 

 

DEAN WINCHESTER

Painter, Curator, and Antiquity Specialist

Lawrence Art Museum and Antiquities

8212 Lawrence Drive

555.672.8510

Castiel smiled to himself as he walked up to a diner across the street. He waited patiently by the cash register for a waitress. Eventually, one came up, grabbing a menu and barely glancing up. “Sorry for the wait. Would you like a table or a booth?” Suddenly, the waitress looked up. Her face looked panicked. She pulled out what looked like a tube of pepper spray from her apron. “Get out! You can’t be here!”

Other employees started towards the front of the store. “We don’t want any trouble, boy. Just leave.”

Castiel tilted his head and raised his hands, pleading. “No, no, you misunderstand!” He pulled a few dollars out of pocket. “ _See_? I have money; I have money to pay this time!”

The manager had walked up at that point. He took the money from Castiel. “Stolen, most likely. Doesn’t surprise me. Tell me, who did you rob this time?”

Castiel shook his head. “No, I earned that. That’s _my_ money!”

The manager threw the money back at Castiel. “We don’t serve scum like you. Take your money and leave.” He then proceeded to forcibly push Castiel out the door into the cold winter air. Castiel sighed, putting his face in his hands and sitting in a slump on the sidewalk.

Castiel didn’t have a good history with this diner, he remembered. But he didn’t expect to be treated so harshly.

What Castiel skipped out on telling Dean was that he lost his job. He had taken a month of leave to search for his father, who, rumours told, was dying. But the search turned unsuccessful, and Castiel returned, discouraged, to his former home in Port Angeles, Washington.

Castiel expected a warm welcome, but what he received felt just as icy as the frozen ground Castiel was now sitting on. He was fired by the school district for missing too many days. His landlord kicked him out of his apartment for overdue fees. Castiel, homeless and with but a suitcase of belongings to his name, now drifted, trying to live one day at a time. He rummaged in garbage cans for food and begged at street corners for work. Currently, he was staying in a shady motel on the edge of town. Castiel was going to just make a run for it and skip out on his fees again, but now that he actually had money, he felt bad for thinking that way.

But then, this isn’t the first time he’s thought about actually paying. He applied for a multitude of odd jobs since he’d returned, but he was yet to get a reply from anyone. This money, if only a dent in what he stole from people, would let him for another week. He bent his tired forehead to the sky, covered in an ambush of clouds. “God, if you’re up there…” Castiel whispered, his lips so dry he could barely speak. “Thank you. Thank you so much. Bless Dean Winchester, an angel among the living.”


End file.
